


The First Rule of Survival

by clgfanfic



Category: War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Paul at West Point story...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Rule of Survival

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Green Floating Weirdness #10 under the pen name Gillian Holt.

_"Sir, there is one thing."_

 

June 1967

         Major Henry J. Wilson stood on the Plain, his gaze roaming over the assembled group of 690 West Point cadets.  Very few of his plebes had remained unchanged by the rigorous first year they had steadfastly endured.  Most had changed profoundly.  Arriving a year ago more boys than men, they now stood before him more men than boys – and he had only lost ten to injuries and second thoughts.

          "Gentlemen," he said, "this summer you will get a taste of real Army life.  Camp Buckner will be a unique experience for most of you.  Make the most of it.  It is your first step to becoming soldiers."

          That done, he watched the cadets break ranks and reform into companies for the short march to the training camp just up the road.  At the facility the newly graduated plebes would spend the summer living in wooden barracks where their emerging high-spirits would replace the gulag atmosphere of the past year.  Just like Wilson and countless other plebes-turned-yearlings before them, they would throw parties and raucous bull sessions, stage practical jokes on each other and on the newly arrived cadets trying to survive Beast.  On Saturdays, after inspection in their crisp summer whites, they would splash through the lake and grapple in spontaneous wrestling tournaments on the beach.  At night they would watch movies or go dancing in Barth Hall, and wish they could sneak in a few girls.

          During their summer at Ft. Buckner the new yearlings would, for the first time, begin to think of each other as an indivisible band of brothers, and out of that bond and sense of camaraderie he and the other West Point TAC officers and instructor NCOs would forge soldiers.  With luck, a few would emerge from the pool of potentials as real warriors – men with a natural gift for leadership, men with the charisma necessary to ensure that the rest would follow them and die without hesitation.

          It was an awe-inspiring process, and Wilson found himself wishing he could be more than just an observer, but the NCOs could teach them more about the brutal realities of the war they now fought.  The summer would not be a cake walk.  There was pain and discomfort waiting for them, the start of their real education as soldiers and leaders of men.

          The summer exercises would also open their eyes to the inherent dangers of their chosen profession, and introduce them to the gritty nonchalance with which some soldiers viewed death.  The instructor NCOs would see to that.

His gaze paused on one young man, a company commander, as he waited for his troops to space off.  He would be one of the warriors, Wilson thought.  There was no doubt in his mind but that Paul Ironhorse would proceed through Camp Buckner with the fluid ease of the natural athlete and leader.

          Ironhorse was one of the rare exceptions every TAC officer dreamed of for his company, an exemplary cadet and, the major was sure, soon to be an exemplary officer.  The young man was an above average plebe, finishing his first year seventh in his class in physical education and athletics, and twelfth in the general order of merit – the Academy's standard for comparing the cadets' overall performance.  And, he had collected only eight-four demerits out of a maximum of 334 – the fourth lowest in the class.

          Wilson had been watching Ironhorse since he had arrived at West Point, four days late to Beast and a chip the size of a small redwood on his shoulder.

          That chip had been whittled down in the first few weeks of West Point life in Beast Barracks, and Wilson held great promise for the young man.  This summer would be his next major test, and Wilson silently hoped that Ironhorse and the other cadets were up to the challenge.  He knew he would lose a few more, but it was better to lose them here, than to the hungry body bags in Vietnam.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul stood with the rest of his company on the small open field next to Lake Popolopen, listening to Major Wilson explain what he and the other cadets would be doing here at Buckner for the next twelve weeks.  It sounded challenging, but nowhere near as demanding as the last year he and the others just survived.

          "Take your seats," Wilson commanded.

          The cadets turned and marched over to fill the bleacher built on one side of the field.

          The major continued.  "In a moment you will be meeting the instructors who will be training you over the next three months.  Watch and listen closely, gentlemen, and you might learn something."

          Another man stepped up to take Wilson's place.  Dressed in sharp-creased cammo fatigues, he was black, short, stocky and dangerous-looking.  Paul developed an immediate respect for the man, although he could not explain why if he tried.

          "All right, people, listen up.  I'm Major Franko, and for the next three months my men and I are going to teach you how to stay alive.  And you will learn, gentlemen, because if you don't, I'll personally have your asses carved off and mounted on my wall."

          The cadets sat up straighter.  The man certainly looked like he could do just that.

          "I am the proud leader of a Special Forces A-team, gentlemen," Franko explained.  "And my men and I have just returned home from Viet-nam.  Therefore, we are the experts.  You will treat these men like each and every one of them was General MacArthur himself.  Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

          "Sir!  Yes, sir!" the cadets shouted.

          The Special Forces major nodded and went on to describe his team's capabilities as the soldiers began to arrive in pairs.  Two floated in by parachute, touching down like cammo-decked ballerinas in the center of the field.  Two emerged from the lake wearing scuba gear, and two more slipped in from the woods, disguised like local hunters.

          A low murmur swept through the cadets.  These men looked different, acted different.  A helicopter swooped in over the field hovering at what would be treetop level with two more men perched on the skids.  They repelled down as two more came ashore in a hollowed out log they used like a canoe.

          Paul watched, noting the way the men knew exactly where the other members of their team were and what they were doing.  He watched their actions, efficient and fast.  There was nothing wasted about these men.  Everything had a place, purpose, rhythm, and they knew exactly how to make the most of it.

          The Camp Buckner exercises were supposed to give the cadets their first look into the various areas of the Army, as well as their first real hands-on experiences, but Paul knew he had just seen his future, and it was with the Special Forces.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul and the rest of Alpha Platoon stood outside their barracks while their NCO instructors from the 101st Airborne wandered up and down through their ranks.  Cadets dropped, pumping out more pushups in one morning to appease the ranting sergeants than they had in a week at the Point.

          Paul found the non-coms energetic and competent – if not somewhat crazy as well.  The sergeants were men born to lead other men.  They were men who could inspire courage in the terror-filled darkness of night.

          "You!" Sergeant Pickins snapped, pointing at Paul.  "And you, and you," he continued, picking Daniels and Riley.  "You're gonna be squad leaders today.  Get out here."

          The three cadets stepped out of the ranks and took positions where the NCO pointed.  Pickins was a stocky, dark-haired man who looked like he belonged behind bars, or wringing chicken's necks somewhere, but he could out-soldier any of them, and the cadets knew it.  When he yelled jump, they did.  Sergeant Allen, on the other hand, was taller, blond and usually not so quick to nail their collective ass.

          "Listen up, you worthless motherfucking, cocksucking, shit-for-brains, no-load pus-nut dip-shits," Pickins growled.  "We're here to teach you how to stay alive in Viet-fucking-nam.  And we know, 'cause we just got back from there.  We know Mr. Victor Charles real, real good.  We fucked his sister and offed his mamma every day…"  He paused, his gaze drilling into the young men.  "And that was _before_ breakfast."

          There was a chorus of nervous chuckles in the ranks.  Special Forces.  Snake eaters.  The men who got up close and personal, fighting in the bush, using the same techniques as the enemy.  Kennedy's sweethearts.  They were already legendary, and Ironhorse wondered if Pickins might not be telling the truth.

          Paul knew that several of the NCO instructors, especially those on the Recondo committee like Pickins, behaved in a rather theatrical fashion, slashing themselves with freshly honed knives to test the blades' sharpness, or cramming scrambled eggs into their mouths with both hands before swaggering John Wayne from the mess hall, belching loudly.  But there was always an edge of reality to the comments that kept him from laughing.

          Pickins waved at the three squad leaders.  "These men are going to be in charge today when me or Sergeant Allen aren't around.  You will listen to them like they were one of us.  Is that clear?"

          "Yes, Sergeant!" the group barked out.

          "Then come on, pussies, let go see if we can get you fucked-up in the woods."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The first order of business at Camp Buckner was infantry training.  The cadets requisitioned mortars and machine guns from a hutch displaying a model of the Combat Infantryman's Badge on the outside wall and large white letters that commanded:  FOLLOW ME.  Firing the heavy weapons gave the yearlings an inkling of the lethal power they would soon command.

          They solved squad and platoon attack problems, enacted famous and infamous battles, debated, revised, and re-enacted.  They ran further, fought longer, and died metaphorically more times than they could keep track of.  The sergeants screamed and ranted, cadets did pushups and situps, or ran laps until they puked, and then it started all over again.  Strategy, tactics, methods of insertion, extraction, retreat were pounded into their minds and bodies, and they learned.  The sergeants watched, took notes, and picked out the men they thought might make decent leaders – then made them work harder.

          The cadets also learned about artillery, and how decisive the "big guns" could be on the battlefield.  They witnessed firsthand how technical the artilleryman's craft really was.  And they learned about armor.  Heirs to the cavalry tradition, tankers charged into battle in fifty-ton M-48s, which could destroy targets more than two miles away.

          Paul soaked it all up, learning, testing, evaluating, re-evaluating and revising until he was sure.  Infantry was where he would focus his attention, but Special Forces was where he wanted to go.  The sergeants agreed, but no one told him so.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Gentlemen," Pickins drawled, looking over his troop of weary cadets, "there are a thousand ways to die.  Only one of them is Mr. Charles.  The rest are because _you_ are stupid.  Your brains are up your ass.  You're slow and sloppy."

Sergeant Allen picked up.  "Today we'll be re-introducing you to the wonderful world of booby traps.  The hills have been laid with traps.  It is your job to work your way from here to the rendezvous location at Delta-Tango.  On the way you are to disarm any traps you find," he paused, grinning wickedly.  "If they don't find you first."

          "If," Pickins barked, "you trip one of our little traps, you are to lie down and play dead for two minutes before going on.  You will keep an accurate count of the traps you trip and those you disarm."

          "To help you shit-for-brains, each trap has a little surprise," Allen added.  "Keep those.  The men with the fastest time, most prizes, and least number of kills will be an eight hour pass into town."

          There was a chorus of cheers.

          " _But_ , before you get started, we wanted to give you a chance to practice," Pickins said.  "Follow me!"

          A few minutes later the cadets stood in one long line, studying a row of beer bottles sitting on the dusty ground.  They had already spent an exhausting morning crawling through the woods, their once crisp fatigues wilted with sweat.  The condensation clinging to the sides of the brown bottles told them the contents were cold.  Several lips were licked, and throats swallowed convulsively.

          "If you want it, you have to successfully defuse the booby trap," Pickins said.  "So, hunker on down and get busy, assholes!"

          Paul and the others stepped forward, squatting on their haunches or kneeling in the dirt.

          Pickins and Allen had showed them how to defuse the traps three days earlier and obviously expected them to remember the details.  He took a deep breath and carefully probed around the dirt-covered metal plate with his bayonet, trying to find the fuse.  Did he remember?

          A loud bang sounded three cadets over and a puff of foul smelling smoke coiled up into the heavy mid-day air.  Everyone jumped, setting off two more of the small charges – noisemakers really, but with enough pop to scare the wits out of anyone who tripped it.

          Paul felt his palms begin to sweat, and for the first time, realized that fear was something he would have to learn to accommodate.  It wasn't going to go away.  In fact, it was going to sit right there in his gut and try to claw its way out.  He tried harder to focus on what he was doing, pushing the distractions and continual explosions out of his mind.

          Heart beating rapidly, Ironhorse continued his careful probe, finally feeling the slight obstruction that marked the fuse.  He paused, maneuvering for a better angle.  Four other cadets continued to work, two of them doing the same.  Another bang.

Lifting the plate of the trap a fraction of an inch, Paul confirmed that he had indeed found the fuse.  Bang!  The cadet next to him was sucking the foul-smelling smoke and gagging.

          The remaining three continued to work, slipping their bayonets in to sever the fuse.  With that done, they disarmed the mechanism and retrieved their rewards, a Trojan condom and the cold bottle of beer.  The two cadets each sucked down the contents.

          Paul let out a deep sigh and wiped the sweat off his forehead before he pocketed the condom and handed the beer to Pickins.  The sergeant tipped it to the cadet, then downed it in three gulps.  He belched loudly.

          "You have fifteen minutes to get from here to the pickup location," Allen told them.  "Try not to get yourselves killed more than once."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Pickins paced up and down the three rows of Alpha Platoon.  In three months he had taught them all he could, and they had learned.  Some faster than others, but each of the cadets had made a concerted effort to hone the skills the NCOs offered them.  Today he and Allen would see just how much they had learned.

          "Gentlemen, today you'll be involved in a counterinsurgency training exercise.  This is your last exercise, then we will be rid of you puke-gut motherfuckers."

          "You will be skirmishing against soldiers from the 101st Airborne," Allen told them.  "They will be playing the roles of French-Canadian separatists who have invaded the United States."

          "They plan on raping your sisters, killing your mothers, and shooting your best friend," Pickins assured them.  "Therefore, you will hunt these motherfuckers down and kill them before they kill you."  He paused, his feet wide apart, hands behind his back.  "And you will do this faster, more efficiently and more creatively than any other puss-nut platoon out here.  Is that understood?"

          "Yes, Sergeant!" the cadets chorused.

          "If you don't, you will _not_ get your twenty-four hour pass.  Your ass will be _mine_ for the next twenty-four hours, and I promise you, gentlemen, you will feel fucked when I'm through with you."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul sat with the rest of his squad in the belly of a Huey.  He was in charge of the nine other cadets.  The responsibility was intimidating, but at the same time, exhilarating.

          Sitting with his legs dangling out of the open hatch, Sergeant Pickins was along as their evaluator.

          Paul looked down, checking his rigging again.  It looked right, but getting it on in the Huey while it swung to avoid possible enemy fire made it impossible to be sure.

          "Comin' up on the drop!" Pickins called.

          Paul and his squad maneuvered to both hatches and waited.

"Go!" Pickins called.

          Tumbling from the clamshell doors of a helicopter, Paul and his squad hit the ground, disconnected their ropes, and sprinted for cover.  The flight had been fast and low, and the clearing was one Ironhorse didn't think he'd seen before.

          The rapid repel down and blind scurry for the trees had left most of the squad without a sense of direction.  Ironhorse knew he might be wasting precious time, but he called for a compass and map check to make sure they moved out in the right direction, and that everyone was orientated again.  Pickins stood off to one side, taking notes and grinning like a fiend.

          The location was the worst that the cadets had experienced at Buckner.  Thick brush and uneven terrain made it difficult to move forward at anything but a fast walk, and impossible to maintain noise discipline.  It wasn't going to be easy.  He and his squad were the hammer on a classic hammer and anvil maneuver.  They would locate the enemy and herd them to where another squad waited, playing anvil.  Then, together they would "beat the ever-lovin' shit" out of the enemy, to quote Sergeant Pickins.

          _If_ he found them, Paul thought.  _If_ he could drive them in the right direction.

          He felt the buzz in his gut start.  He was getting used to it, almost relying on it to help guide his actions.  It was time to move out.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Paul signaled for his squad to stop.  Dropping down to one knee, he studied the tracks that had obviously been left on the trail for them to find.  Pickins moved up to see what the delay was, then scribbled something in his notebook.

Paul was starting to hate that pad of paper.

          Making a decision, Ironhorse pulled back, whispering to the cadets and then sending two into the brush.  Pickins' eyes narrowed and more notes were made.  The two cadets moved slowly for several yards, then returned.

          "You were right, there are traps," one said.

          Ironhorse nodded.  "Okay, we stay on the trail for now, but I want the point men to keep an eye out for more traps."

          The cadets nodded and they moved out again along the trail.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          A soft click and the squad froze.  Ironhorse moved to the front, Pickins following.

          A cadet stood, frozen in place.  Paul motioned the rest up.  "Stevens, you and Rogers go check the area off the tail, see if it's trapped."

          The two cadets nodded and headed into the brush.  Paul turned to the five remaining cadets.  "I want a watch set five yards up and down the trail.  Clark, stay with me."

          Again the cadets moved out.  Ironhorse turned his attention to the man standing on the booby trap.  "Okay," Paul said calmly, "don't move.  I'll see if I can disarm it."

Carter Nichols nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively.  Pickins scribbled notes, then disappeared.  Ironhorse pulled his bayonet free from his web belt and knelt down.  _Just like the exercises_ , he told himself, probing.  This time he found the fuse quickly and cut.

          "Okay, on three, you step off."  Paul gripped the edge of the metal plate, held the knife ready, and counted.  "One, two, three—"  He lifted and cut.  No pop.  He retrieved the condom and stood.

          "Get the others," he commanded.  Nichols and Clark moved off, and in a few moments the squad was reunited.

          "Paul, there's a small hill about seventy yards off the trail to the north," Stevens said, his bright blue eyes wide with excitement.

          Paul checked his map.  The hill set along the path to the anvil position.  It was a good place to lay an ambush…  He looked up.  "Any traps?"

          Stevens and Rogers shook their heads.

          "Okay, we're going into the bush.  We go slow and quiet."

          The cadets nodded and they headed out, Ironhorse trying to ignore the constant scribbling that followed him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          In the middle of the area a small but steep hill rose.  Ironhorse called for a stop, motioning to Stevens to join him.

          "What are we going to do?" the cadet asked.

          "I want you to take these guys and continue forward.  See if you can find the Airborne guys and move them over to Daniel's position.  I'm going to circle around that hill and meet you on the far side."

          "You sure that's a good idea, going off on your own?"

          Paul considered.  "I'll take Nichols."

          Stevens nodded.  "Be careful, Paul.  Who knows what those Snake Eaters will do to us if they catch us."

          Paul grinned.  "You, too."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Separated from the group, Paul and Nichols worked their way around the hill, the going difficult and painful, forcing them through brambles and rocky washes.  Moving up one steep bank, Nichols slipped and bounced down to the bottom.

          Paul scrambled after him.  "Carter?"

          The young man groaned.  "Paul, damn it, I think I broke a rib," he wheezed, squeezing his sides with his arms.

          Paul pressed along the man's ribs.  He winced, but nothing more.  "More like bruised, I think.  Can you get up?"

          With Ironhorse's help, Nichols climbed to his feet, then looked up the side of the hill.  "I can't get up there.  I can't pull a deep breath."

          "Yes, you can," Paul told him.  "We'll go as far as you can, then I'll get you up the rest of the way, okay?"

Carter blew a deep breath out, then looked at Paul.  "You're good at this."

          Ironhorse grinned.  "No, I just want to see Pickins pissed when we get that pass."

          Nichols smiled.  "Let's do it."

          The first half of the climb up went well, but as it grew steep toward the top Nichols stopped.  Gripping his chest, he shook his head.  "I can't… go any… farther."

          Paul nodded, silently asking Grandfather for the strength he'd need.  "Okay, let's piggyback."

          Nichols wrapped his arms around Ironhorse's neck and sucked in a gasp when Paul hefted him off the ground.  "I'm too heavy," Nichols said.

          "Shut up," Ironhorse hissed, half-hiking, half-crawling through the brush and rocks to the top of the embankment.  Once there he eased Nichols down and fought to catch his breath.

          "Thanks, man," Carter said.

          "Yeah," Ironhorse panted.  "Next time you can carry me."

          "You've got it."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The two cadets pulled up short when they spotted four paratroopers crouched in ambush, waiting for the rest of their squad.

          "Wait here," Paul said.

          Nichols nodded.  His chest burned and it was hard to breathe.  There was no way he could move quickly or over obstacles.  "Be careful."

          Ironhorse nodded, arranging a few pieces of brush around the cadet, then carefully crept toward the soldiers, hoping to come up unnoticed from behind them.

          Carter watched Paul's progress, then jumped slightly when he heard the pencil scribbling.  Glancing up, he found Pickins standing next to him, an unreadable expression on the man's face.

          "What happened, Nichols?"

          Carter told him.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse reached the men, his rifle held at the ready, even if it wasn't loaded.  The paratroopers were distracted, listening to the approaching sounds of the other squad members.

          Paul hesitated.  If he yelled, they might bolt and he couldn't follow four of them, but if he didn't doing _something_ ASAP they would capture his squad.

          With a bold rush, Ironhorse stood and charged the remaining distance.  The four men reacted, spinning in his direction.

          "Hold it, right there," Ironrhorse growled in his best imitation of a Pickins' command voice.

          The four men's eyes widened in surprise.  "Motherfuck!" one growled.

          "Shit!" the other three choursed.

Sergeant Pickins emerged from the trees, startling Paul, who swung his rifle in his direction, but then back to the four soldiers as they started to move.  Someone else emerged from behind Pickins, but Paul ignored him.  Observers were not part of the exercise.  The scribbling started again.

          "Don't move," he told the men.  "You are prisoners of Fox Squad.  Surrender your weapons."

          The four paratroopers laid their weapons on the ground, then congratulated Ironhorse.

          Major Franko, who had been observing the impending ambush, walked over to Paul and saluted him.

          Ironhorse's eyes went round with surprise.  "Sir!" he said, snapping off an answering salute.

          Franko grinned and extended his hand.  Paul shook it. "Damned, fine work, Cadet.  You've got more temerity than most of these damned baby ring-knockers."  He looked at the four paratroopers.  "And I think it's time you men took a refresher course."

          There was a collective groan, but it was followed by chuckles.

          "If there's anything I can do for you, Cadet, just ask," Franko said.  "That was some of the best work I've seen recently outside Vietnam."

          Paul trembled slightly from the praise.  He took a deep breath and risked, "Sir, there is one thing."

          Franko's eyes widened.  "He's got more balls than I thought," the major mumbled to Pickins.  The sergeant snorted and nodded.  "And what would that be, Cadet."

          "Sir, I would like to take the Airborne jump course after the Camp Buckner exercises are concluded, but I'll need a recommendation, sir."

          A wide smile split Franko's face.  "Got your eye on Spec Ops, Cadet?"

          "Yes, sir."

          He turned to Pickins.  "Sergeant?"

          "Fine by me, sir."

          "In that case, I'd be happy to write that recommendation, Cadet.  Major Wilson will have it tomorrow."

          "Thank you, sir."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Wilson sat at his desk, reading over the cadet reviews from the Airborne platoon leaders.  Picking up the one for Paul Ironhorse, he grinned.  His fellow TAC officer, Captain Langstrom, had been pissed as a wet cat when he'd heard that Major Franko had personally requested that Ironhorse be allowed to attend Airborne jump course before the start of the academic year.

          Next summer, Wilson decided, he would have to see if he could find a slot for Ironhorse in an Advanced Infantry Training course, then send him off to the Ranger selection course.  It seemed the young man had already made his decision and Special Forces had hooked him.

          He skimmed over Sergeant Pickins' scrawling comments again.  "Cadet Ironhorse has an above average sense of responsibility… is flexible in the field… Ironhorse has an ability to work well with others, as well as on his own…  He inspires those under his command… treats all of them fairly… genuinely cares about their welfare…  He shows initiative… aggressive in a positive way… forceful, but willing to discuss… can make instantaneous decisions…  Good sense of humor, but emotionally well guarded…  Above average strength and endurance…  Above average capacity and ability."

          Wilson nodded.  It was just like he had suspected, a warrior.  He read the last line of the evaluation.  "Recommend Highly, without reservations, for further Spec Ops courses."

          There wasn't a higher recommendation.  Even if Paul Ironhorse wasn't interested in Special Forces, the Special Forces were already interested in him.

          Wilson added his own comments and signed the document, slipping it into the stack to be filed.


End file.
